Had anyone outside the inner circle of musical theatre appreciation heard of Pippin before this term?  A tasty – if esoteric – little apple?  An affectionate nickname? No: apparently the son of the great warrior overlord Charlemagne, celebrated musically in a slightly alternative show from the 1970s.  Yes. Really. Surely I was not alone in both my ignorance, and consequent surprise, at what emerged in the now iconic Hurtwood Christmas musical: a fabulous company piece, packed with joyous...

Chapter One: The Trial They named it Justice Hour . But it was just another broadcast. Lyra Quinn, a short, quick-fit, legacy building, smart minded girl stood in the centre of the Dominion Square, her breath misting in the cold morning air as the massive screens flickered to life above her. All around, citizens in red coats and white caps bellowed cheers of broken democracy, holding their phones in the air like the court was a concert. Children perched up on the shoulders of their parents,...

Hurricane Poem I am not storm waves, hurtling towards shard-ridden shores.   I am not kind breezes, gracing the leaves with breath to dance.   I am not the scheduled ascent and descent of the sun.   I am a hurricane; I sit in it’s eye. 
witnessing the vortex inhale, exhale, inhale again Endlessly reforming, reacting While I feel nothing at all. A Letter to Those We Leave Behind To you, The many, the few, the near and far between Do not condemn us to the shadowy corners of your minds, Where...